Come Back
by Revhead
Summary: After his 'death', Sherlock asks Lestrade for regular updates on John. But though John is spiralling into a dark pit of grief, Sherlock insists he has work to do. What will it take to convince Sherlock to come back home? Warnings for mild language and mention of (faked) suicide.


**Come Back**

_To SH:_

If this is a practical joke, whoever you are I will hunt you down and slap you with so many criminal charges you will be tangled up in lawsuits for years. If it isn't, I will hunt you down and kill you myself.

_To Lestrade:_

I am already dead.

_To SH:_

That's what I read in the papers and the autopsy report. So you can imagine my surprise when I got your message.

_To Lestrade:_

Did you destroy the tape after you watched it?

_To SH:_

Yes. You know, I can't decide whether you are a bloody genius for pulling this off or a bloody idiot for doing it in the first place.

_To Lestrade:_

I believe the tape adequately explained why it was necessary.

_To SH:_

Was it necessary to make John watch? He has been through enough trauma in his life already.

_To Lestrade:_

He would not believe it unless he witnessed the event with his own eyes. His online blog would detail his search for me, and the whole world would know about it.

_To SH:_

You could save him the trouble of searching. Just tell him that you are alive.

_To Lestrade:_

People will be watching him. He must be seen to grieve.

_To SH:_

I'm surprised you even know what grief is. If you have any idea what it felt like you wouldn't be doing this to him.

_To Lestrade:_

The spider left behind a complex, tangled web of crime and corruption. It needs to be unravelled, and I have a better chance of success if the world thinks I am dead.

_To SH:_

How long will it take?

_To Lestrade:_

I don't know.

_To SH:_

Well hurry back, will you? You're needed here.

_To Lestrade:_

I am sure Scotland Yard can survive without me for a little while.

_To SH:_

I was talking about John.

_To Lestrade:_

He will be fine.

_To Lestrade:_

But even so, keep an eye on him for me.

_To Lestrade:_

Let me know how he is doing.

_To Lestrade:_

Not every five minutes, mind you. But make sure you keep me updated.

_To SH:_

I will.

_To Lestrade:_

Thank you.

ooOOoo

_To SH: _

The funeral was today.

_To SH: _

The private one, that is. John refused to go to the larger public one because he thought it would be a media circus.

_To Lestrade:_

It was. I saw it in all the papers and on all the news channels. Why do they insist on showing the photo of me in that ridiculous hat?

_To SH:_

It is iconic.

_To Lestrade:_

Another reason why I had to die. John said I was becoming too famous and suggested I lay low.

_To SH:_

I don't think this is what he had in mind. You should have heard him today.

_To Lestrade:_

He delivered the eulogy?

_To SH:_

I have attended many funerals, and I have never heard a eulogy as moving as the one John gave. He had a great deal of respect for you, and he clearly misses his best friend a lot.

_To Lestrade:_

How could you tell?

_To SH:_

He is a military man, and his composure broke.

_To SH:_

He choked up in the middle of his speech and was blinking back tears. Even someone without your skills of deduction could see how much he is hurting.

_To Lestrade:_

That is unfortunate.

_To SH:_

Unfortunate? You did this to him!

_To SH:_

This has gone on long enough. Come back. John doesn't deserve this.

_To Lestrade:_

I have work to do.

ooOOoo

_To SH:_

John has started seeing his therapist again.

_To SH:_

Don't you care?

_To Lestrade:_

Ella Thompson is a qualified professional. Why should I have any objection?

_To SH:_

She wasn't much of a help last time. John needed YOU. He still needs you.

_To Lestrade:_

I'm busy.

ooOOoo

_To SH:_

John is limping.

_To Lestrade:_

Let him chase down a few criminals with you. That should clear it up in no time.

_To SH:_

I have asked for his help on a number of different cases. He says that you were the genius and he was just the useless sidekick.

_To Lestrade:_

That is not true. John was an invaluable asset.

_To SH:_

Well he won't hear it from me. Maybe you should tell him.

_To Lestrade:_

I am not in a position to do so at the moment.

_To SH:_

Then come back.

_To Lestrade:_

Not until the job is done.

ooOOoo

_To SH:_

He hasn't left the flat in three days.

_To Lestrade:_

Mrs Hudson will take care of him.

ooOOoo

_To SH:_

John is not doing well. He's pale, withdrawn, barely speaks to anyone. Mrs Hudson says he is suffering from terrible nightmares and hardly gets any sleep.

_To Lestrade:_

He just needs something to keep his mind otherwise occupied.

_To SH:_

That's not what he needs.

_To Lestrade:_

Try talking to him. Or playing the violin. I have a lead I need to follow up on.

ooOOoo

_To SH:_

He blames himself, you know.

_To Lestrade:_

For what?

_To SH:_

Your suicide.

_To Lestrade:_

That is absurd. I was clearly driven to it because the public discovered the truth about me and I was overwhelmed with guilt.

_To SH:_

John doesn't believe that you were a fraud. He doesn't understand why you did it, but he was there. He was the last person you spoke to. He thinks he should have been able to stop you from jumping, save you somehow.

_To Lestrade:_

I did not give him the chance.

_To SH:_

Do you think that makes a difference to him? He won't forgive himself for letting you die.

_To Lestrade:_

He will eventually. That is what the therapist is for, is it not?

_To SH:_

He stopped going to see her a few weeks ago. He has been missing work, too.

_To SH:_

He is in a bad way. We're all worried about him.

_To SH:_

You need to come back.

_To Lestrade:_

John is not a helpless child. He is the strongest man I know. He will find a way to cope until I return.

_To SH:_

And when will that be?

_To Lestrade:_

That remains to be seen.

ooOOoo

_To SH:_

This is all your bloody fault!

_To Lestrade:_

What?

_To SH:_

What? John bloody RE-ENLISTED in the ARMY, that's what!

_To Lestrade:_

Why would he do that?

_To SH:_

Oh, I don't know. Maybe because his best friend in the world – the man who saved him, gave him a purpose again, filled his life with excitement and adventure, the man who he cared more for than anyone else – committed SUICIDE right IN FRONT of him.

_To Lestrade:_

It has been months. He should be over it by now.

_To SH:_

You have absolutely no bloody clue about human emotions, do you?

_To Lestrade:_

I have little use for them.

_To SH:_

You know what? You didn't deserve him.

ooOOoo

_To SH:_

He ships out tomorrow. If you don't come back to talk him out of it, he will go out there and probably get himself killed.

_To SH:_

Fine. Do nothing. I thought you actually cared about him, but I guess I was wrong.

_To SH:_

If John dies, his blood will be on your hands. And I will never forgive you.

ooOOoo

_To SH:_

I don't know why I am even bothering to contact you after all this time. You have made it clear that John's wellbeing is no longer of any interest to you. But if you are capable of feeling even the slightest bit of emotion, right now you should be feeling guilty. Because John is missing.

_To Lestrade:_

What? What happened?

_To SH:_

Like you care.

_To Lestrade:_

TELL ME.

_To SH:_

His unit was ambushed and slaughtered almost to the last man. Three bodies are missing, including John's. He could have been captured, or he could be dead.

_To Lestrade:_

What are the coordinates of his last known position?

_To SH:_

I thought you were busy.

_To Lestrade:_

THE COORDINATES. NOW.

_To SH:_

Are you seriously going to go after him?

_To Lestrade:_

I am getting on an aircraft at this very moment. I need to give the pilot those coordinates.

_To SH:_

Are you crazy? It is a war zone.

_To Lestrade:_

The pilot owes me a favour. The coordinates, Lestrade.

_To SH:_

Only if you swear to me that you will find him. Swear that you will bring him home.

_To Lestrade:_

Of course I will.

_To SH:_

Even if it means people finding out that you are alive?

_To Lestrade:_

Right now that is the least of my concerns. I have to find John. I died to save him; I'll be damned if I let him die now.

ooOOoo

His body shivered.

John knew that shivering was not a good sign. It was not cold here. It never was. Though he could not see its light he knew that, outside, the bare unforgiving sun continued to beat down mercilessly, day after day. He could feel the oppressive heat that seeped through the cracks of his stone prison, and yet he shivered.

The doctor in him realised that he had a fever. It should not come as any surprise; the human body could only hold out for so long. His gunshot wound had been left largely untreated and, although he had used his shirt to bandage the leg as best he could, it was probably infected by now. Ironic that the psychosomatic limp he'd had now belatedly had a physical cause.

Absently, he wondered if it would be the wound that killed him in the end or if starvation would manage to do him in first. It didn't really matter; the result would be the same. He found he didn't care as much as he though perhaps he ought to. Mrs Hudson would be upset when she found out, probably Harriet and maybe Molly, too. Lestrade would just be angry with him in all likelihood.

But the only person John had ever felt really needed him had already gone on ahead of him into the dark. John wondered if he would see him again. Would there be puzzles and crimes to solve in the afterlife? Or was Sherlock bored, bored, _bored_? Either way, he could probably do with some company, so it was not such a bad thing that John seemed on his way to meet him.

He exhaled a wheezy, rattling breath and resigned himself to waiting. It wouldn't be long.

The passing of time was meaningless in his dark, dank hole. John sank into a listless stupor, lost within his own mind. Memories flitted by at random; pulling Harriet's hair, getting shot in the shoulder, riding a bike for the first time, reading the newspaper as a violin played in the background, bending over an injured soldier, meeting Sherlock, attending the wedding of Harry and Clara, sprinting through the streets and back alleys of London, punching the Chief Superintendent square in the nose, Sherlock frantically ripping the bomb vest off him and flinging it aside, standing at the front of a press conference as Sherlock unwrapped a deerstalker hat, watching Sherlock fall… fall…

"John!"

Sherlock's voice, a mixture of triumph and relief and worry in his tone. Odd that it almost sounded real.

"Are you alright? John? Answer me – open your eyes! John!"

So loud, for a memory. And the words did not sound familiar; he couldn't remember when Sherlock had said them to him.

"John!"

Closer, this time, which of course made no sense at all-

A hand landed on his shoulder. His eyes shot open.

At first, the sight that greeted him filled John with such indescribable joy that he was nearly moved to tears. But reality swiftly sank in.

"Great," he sighed. "Now I'm hallucinating."

"You're not hallucinating," the dead man said.

John laughed weakly, hoarsely, until it turned into a hacking cough. The hand that wasn't there shifted to awkwardly pat John on the back until he caught his breath again.

"Hallucinations always say that," he rasped. "But I know you're not here."

"Yes I am, John. I'm back."

"From the dead. I may not be as smart as you were, but even I know that is impossible."

"Under normal circumstances you would be right in that assessment. However I never died, so my return is entirely feasible."

"I watched you _fall_," John said sharply. "I was there, I saw you die, so stop trying to convince me that you're alive because as much as I wish it were true I know it isn't."

The image of Sherlock frowned a little, as though John were a particularly puzzling crime scene that actually required some small measure of his brain power to decipher. "You are denying the evidence of your own senses. Why?"

And there, the expression of dawning comprehension. "Of course… the sweat on your forehead, the slight but frequent trembling of your body despite the warm temperature, the odour, and the makeshift bandage around your leg, combined with the length of your captivity and the unsanitary condition of your cell, all indicate an injury that has not received adequate medical attention and has thus become infected. Being a doctor of considerable knowledge and skill, you are aware of your deteriorating health and also aware that hallucinations are not an uncommon side effect. Also taking into account the event you believe you witnessed six months ago – namely, my death – you have come to the quite logical, but incorrect, conclusion that my presence here is imagined.

"Similarly, it is for these reasons that any attempts on my part to convince you that I am real will be currently ineffective, so I will save the detailed explanation of why and how I faked my death for when you have recovered."

John blinked blearily, struggling to keep his eyes open. The detective was difficult to keep up with even on the best of days; as it was, he had barely registered every third word the illusion had just said.

"I'm tired, Sherlock," he exhaled. "I just want to sleep… and not wake up again."

Instead of shutting up and leaving John to die in peace, the vision said, "The John Watson I know would not give up so easily. And in any event, I did not come all this way to fail to retrieve you now. You may not believe that I am here, but you cannot deny that the door to your cell is open."

John's mind sluggishly processed this information, belatedly noticing that light was streaming in through the doorway and the sound of a battle could be heard taking place outside. He thought he could even hear Major Hansen's voice yelling out orders, but wasn't sure if he dared to believe it. How could they possibly have found him?

His gaze returned to Sherlock, and for the first time he considered the possibility that he wasn't a hallucination after all.

"Rescue?" he croaked.

"A brilliant deduction, John."

The will to live returned to him, lending strength to his weary bones.

"Then what am I waiting for?"

He braced his hands against the floor and with a grunt of effort managed to push himself to his feet, only to have his injured leg crumple beneath him.

Sherlock caught his arm before he could fall, steading him and silently offering his support. John accepted gratefully, for now choosing not to question how he could be leaning on a figment of his fevered imagination.

He hobbled slowly from the cell and had barely made it a few steps across the compound before five of his army buddies ran over to set up a defensive perimeter around them. John was content to let them worry about the enemy soldiers, focusing on the warm band of pressure around his arm and the need to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He tried to ignore the sickening lurches of pain that shot though him every time he put any pressure on his bad leg, but despite his best efforts his world began to turn grey around the edges.

John was not aware of the exact moment when he lost the battle and unconsciousness swept over him. The last thing he remembered was Sherlock's voice calling his name, as though across a great distance, and then he was falling…

ooOOoo

The smell of antiseptic. The steady beating of a heart monitor. The feeling of a mattress beneath him. The absence of pain.

John did not have to open his eyes to know that he was waking up in a hospital. Unfortunately it seemed to be a common occurrence for him, whether it be as a patient because he had been wounded again or as a doctor who had fallen asleep at his desk because Sherlock had kept him awake all night again…

Sherlock. _Sherlock!_

Hadn't he– But, wasn't he– He couldn't have– But–

"Your heart rate, breathing and movements have increased. You're awake."

That voice.

John opened his eyes slowly, cautiously, afraid that it had all just been a crazy dream brought on by illness and wishful thinking.

At first, all he saw was the plain white ceiling. He turned his head.

"Sherlock," he breathed.

The consulting detective was sitting at his bedside in a hard plastic chair, watching him with those analytical blue eyes that bore a hint of uncharacteristic concern. His curly hair was slightly dishevelled and his clothes were creased, which made it look like he had been sat there for a while, but maintaining a vigil at the bedside of a sick friend was surely something Sherlock would find incredibly, excruciatingly _boring_.

Not to mention the fact that Sherlock was supposed to be dead and buried.

Yet there he was, as large as life.

"John," Sherlock replied calmly.

"It's really you?"

"Yes."

"You're not dead."

"No."

"Care to explain?"

"That may take some time."

John glanced down at the leg that was encased in plaster. "I'm not going anywhere for a while."

So John lay there and listened silently as Sherlock told him everything, from his fear that Moriarty intended to kill him and his belief that the name Sherlock Holmes had become too famous for him to work effectively, to enlisting Molly's help, to choosing the location, to setting up the façade, to the final confrontation with Moriarty, to the phone conversation and the fall, to going into hiding and his efforts to take down the massive criminal network that Moriarty had left behind, to receiving updates from Lestrade, to hearing that John was MIA. Sherlock went into detail about how he had examined the ambush site where John had been attacked and deduced where he was being held captive from a few shell casings, patterns in the sand and crushed leaves.

"…Major Hansen was insufferable at first, but he sent some of his men to do 're-con' of the area I identified and discovered that I was right. So naturally he was even more insufferable than ever, insisting that I was a 'sissy civilian' who could not handle the retrieval mission. Of course I would not hear of staying behind, and when they took too long to prepare I left without them. Needless to say, I found you, the soldiers caught up eventually and the rescue was managed successfully."

Sherlock paused, looking to John with an expectant expression. When he said nothing, Sherlock continued slowly, "You are back in London now being looked after by the best medical professionals available."

Silence.

"You're home, John. You're safe."

No reply.

"John?"

"So you are not dead, then," John said stiffly.

"I believe we established th- OW!" Sherlock's hand flew up to comfort his cheek; his eyes were wide with pain and surprise.

John shook out the stinging in his fist, still trembling with rage.

Fury had been bubbling up within him from the moment Sherlock began his tale and he had finally exploded, his fist flying of its own accord and slamming into that smug face. Sherlock was entirely too pleased with himself and his own brilliance; he didn't care, he Didn't. Even. Care!

"_Damn you,_ Sherlock Holmes," John snarled. "_Damn_ you!"

He had the nerve to look like a kicked puppy. "What?"

"WHAT?" John repeated, not caring that his raised voice could probably be heard throughout the entire hospital. "You stupid, inconsiderate, inhuman, bloody _bastard_! You let me think you were _dead_! You made me watch as you jumped off the roof of a bloody _building_! You called me to give your _suicide_ note and then let me think for _six whole months _that you had _killed yourself_. I thought it was my fault! I thought I had missed the signs, I thought I should have seen it coming and somehow done something to stop you. I thought I was a terrible friend – but it was _you! YOU LET ME THINK YOU WERE DEAD! _I _grieved_ for you. I delivered your eulogy, I visited your grave, I mourned you – I _missed_ you every single day since the day it happened, but you're _not dead_. And you just come waltzing back here, rescue me from a prisoner of war camp, go on and on about how clever you are and you think I'm going to forgive you just like that?"

"I do not understand," Sherlock said slowly. "If you missed me, then should you not be glad to see me? Why are you angry?"

John could not believe he was hearing this. "Why am I- Oh for GOD'S SAKE, Sherlock!" A long stream of loud and creative expletives that would have put even his drill sergeant to shame spewed from John's mouth until he had used up every swear word he knew in four different languages and then he invented a few new ones for good measure. Eventually he was left gasping for breath and had to resort to glaring daggers at the man who did not even realise that what he had done was a horrible, unforgivable thing.

Sherlock had just sat there meekly though the fifteen minutes of solid shouting, looking confused and intrigued at the same time. When John did not seem inclined to add anything else, Sherlock picked up a cup from the bedside table. "Ice chips?" he offered. "It will help sooth your throat."

"_Sherlock,"_ John growled in warning, refusing to acknowledge the fact that his voice had indeed grown hoarse from all the yelling and his throat did hurt. "Do you have even the _foggiest_ idea of how infuriated I am with you right now?"

"Yes. Your fist is clenched, the vein on your forehead is bulging, your face is red, your lips are pressed into a thin line, and you have just spent a significant amount of time screaming at me. I would say that you are angrier than I have ever seen you."

"Good deduction. Have you worked out why yet?"

"I think so. Faking my death and not telling you the truth sooner is one of those 'not good' things, isn't it? I did not think about the emotional impact my suicide would have on you, and as your… friend… I shouldn't have done that to you. It was cruel."

"And?"

"And… I am sorry?"

John heaved a sigh. "You think that makes everything better, don't you?"

"But I _am_ sorry."

"It is not that easy, Sherlock. I don't know if I can even call you a friend anymore."

"But you still love me."

"_What?"_

Sherlock raised a hand to gingerly rub the spectacular bruise that had blossomed across his cheek. "You hit me, but you avoided my nose and teeth, just like last time. The woman said that means you love me."

John spluttered incoherently.

"Does that make you uncomfortable? I understand that there are no sexual implications. Friends can love each other, can't they?"

Sherlock was so earnest and innocent in asking the question, so hesitant yet genuine as he ventured into the unfamiliar territory of emotions and relationships, that it was frustratingly endearing. John remembered, then, that even though Sherlock was socially incompetent and a right ignorant insensitive ass most of the time, for some reason he still put up with this man, enjoyed the company of this man…considered this man to be a friend. His best friend.

He had missed him like crazy, and now Sherlock was back. He was still angry, but relief and happiness were nudging their way to the forefront.

"I – guess friends can, yes-" John stammered his reply, "but… can we just phrase it as… I care about you, or something? Okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock agreed happily.

John exhaled. "Don't get me wrong. I'm still not okay with what you did. And if you _ever_ pull _anything_ like this on me again-"

"I won't. I promise."

John narrowed his eyes at the detective. "You're back now, for good, right? No more lying, no more pretending to be dead. You have come back, and you're not leaving."

"I'm back," Sherlock confirmed.

John relaxed, the tension in his shoulders slipping away and the fist he held at his side loosening. "Okay, then. Well, it's a good thing Mrs Hudson didn't have the heart to throw out any of your stuff. You should be able to move back into Baker Street without too much trouble." John threw a glare down at his injured leg. "I'll join you there as soon as I can."

"Get better soon," Sherlock said. "I need my partner."

John raised his eyebrows at the term. "I thought I was just your blogger."

Sherlock shook his head and offered a faint, hesitant smile. "You have been my partner from the beginning, John."

There had been a deep, aching hole in his chest from the moment John saw Sherlock jump. But now it was filled again, and it felt warm and comfortable and right. Sherlock was home. The world was as it should be.

"I'll let you get some rest," Sherlock said, standing to his feet.

John didn't want him to go, but he didn't want to seem clingy either. And he was very tired. "Come back in the morning."

"I will."

"And bring my laptop. This blog entry is going to be a doozy…"

Sherlock chuckled and made for the door. Before he left, though, he turned around. "John…"

"Yes?"

He coughed, awkwardly. "I care about you, too."

ooOOoo

_The End_


End file.
